


Perfect

by Diana_Prallon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Character Study, Episode: s04e11 The Hunter's Heart, Misunderstandings, Multi, POV Female Character, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 07:28:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16342418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diana_Prallon/pseuds/Diana_Prallon
Summary: She had a job to do, and it was to win the heart of a king.(Only she didn't know it had already been won).





	Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks the mods again for this wonderful fest. I'm so sorry about my delay! This has been such a rush with missing-words, restoration and correction that turned into hundreds of words and sudden-unexpected-merthur-overtones (but isn't that just the show? LOL). I hope it at least does the episode justice.  
> I hope you all enjoy it. :)

When Mithian saw the white towers of Camelot’s castle shining in the distance, she had to force herself to remain calm. Her hands trembled, and her stomach flipped. For a few moments, she wondered if her mare was quick enough for a escape — her fingers tightened on the reigns, and it snorted, showing what she thought of Mithian’s sudden doubts. 

With a sigh, she let go of the leather straps, using her hands instead to pull the veil that was attached to her coronet; covering her face. She would not shame herself or her family by having a breakdown in full view of the guards. They might be loyal, but they, too, had expectations, Princess Mithian had been raised to meet and exceed all of them. Every other noble woman in the land had been used as a model she would be measured against during her tutoring.

The voice of the people that had taught her, trained her, echoed in her head while the horse moved ahead. “You must be a great horsewoman, like Princess Elena — but never clumsy as she is, the girl’s a disaster!”; “You should be delicate and elegant like Lady Vivian, but you mustn’t be haughty as she is, that girl gives herself airs.”, “Always aim at being as witty as Lady Morgana, but don’t go around challenging your betters, honestly, that girl needs to be punished from time to time!”. Mithian could recite every noblewoman in Albion, her strong and weak points, and had been honed to have the best in each of them.

She was supposed to be perfect. She could not run away now, just because going under Camelot’s archway made her heart miss a beat.

Running away had sounded like a best prospect than some of the marriage proposals she had received, but when Camelot’s came, she took the time to consider it — not because she expected it to be better for her, but because it helped her people. 

Nemeth was, in fact, her one true love. Of course, the real irony, was that loving it meant she had to leave it.

“Bravery takes many forms, and, although most people wouldn’t consider it, there’s little more brave than to leave behind everything you know in service of your king and country,” her late mother’s voice echoed in Mithian’s head as she approached the entrance to Camelot’s main keep. “And, you never know, you may even find  _love_  if you’re lucky enough.”

Though she hadn’t heard her mother’s voice for almost a decade, it was as if they had been together but the week before. Once, she had even been silly enough to hope for more than duty, but as the real thing approached, all Mithian could worry about was if she would be able to live with the decision her father had made. It was all fine and good for men to sit around, exchanging letters and reports and talking about lands and goods and whatever else; the real work, however, came down to women like her mother and her, leaving everything they knew and loved behind and allowing herself to be in the mercy of a stranger.

Not that she had had much choice in the matter.

As the gates to the citadel opened, the straightened up her spine, sitting tall on her horse, Mithian pushed away everything she felt — her fears and doubts, her hopes and dreams. It did not matter. 

She knew she could do it from the moment she pulled back her reigns. King Arthur is young, after all, and far more handsome than she had hoped. Mithian dared even to hope — against all odds — for something more. Anything. Kindness. A spark. He stood tall, the crown heavy on his head, his knights behind him along with some nobles. It was obvious he was trying to look stern, but there was something — the way his adam’s apple bobs in clear tension or the way he chews on his tongue — that give away just how nervous he is about it all. It warmed her heart to him. 

(Later, she wonders how she missed  _him_  in the midst of them. There way no way to confuse his clothes to those of a noble, and his defiance was obvious in his stance. If only she had noticed it — had seen him — from the start, much heartache might be avoided).

King Arthur welcomed them, and it was obvious that he meant every word. Sincerity like that could not be faked. Then — soon, too soon — it was time. One of the guards pulled her horse forward, and Mithian counted the seconds in her head, allowing them all to see her. This public welcoming is a show, a show for the people about who’s to be their new Queen, and she will do her part well.

The man took a deep breath, like someone getting ready for battle, and Mithian thought that, for once, she had the upper hand. She could see him, under the daylight, while she’s hidden under lace and silk. Taking pity on him, she princess held the hem of the veil, looking straight at the king, and pulled it up, revealing her face.

There was a soft “ahh” from the audience at her face’s loveliness, but Mithian didn’t hear it — all of her attention was aimed at the King and the way he’d react to her.

Arthur looked at her like a man entranced. He was not expecting this — he expected duty not beauty, and now found himself lucky enough to see both in her. Their eyes met, and Mithian could almost smile; this was far more than she could have hoped for. He wants her, that much is obvious from the way is eyes travel through her figure — not rudely, but shocked, as a man who suddenly found himself a treasure where he was expecting nothing.

(Near the top of the stairs, a young man looked away, clearly unimpressed, obviously hurt. Mithian didn’t notice, not then, but in her memories she can see his face twisted in resentment and mockery).

For a long moment, Arthur did nothing but stare at her, and then he was moving towards her. It was time to meet the man she was to marry. Turning towards her guard, she gestured for him to pick her up from the saddle.

She got down from her horse with the grace meant to appear effortless, but that was drilled into her mercilessly from the moment she could walk. Her cape fell down her straight back, as water flowing down from the highest peaks, and yet, white as snow. The folds of her gown gathered around her long legs and she steps ahead towards him like the bride she will soon be.

 As a king, he must know the courtly game he should be playing but he seemed to have been forgotten how to play it in the tree long years since his last royal betrothal. The king stared and stared at her as they comes close. Mithian threw her smile at him like a hook and reeled him in with with her eyes. 

“Princess Mithian,” he said, his voice warm. “You’re most welcome.”

At that moment, she knew she could win. It would be easy, so easy. Mithian felt almost giddy with excitement over it all; as a ancient huntress goddess, her bow pulled back, her arrow perfectly aimed, her prey a young, handsome king. 

She needs no technique but her training, no weapon but her words.

“Thank you, your highness,” Mithian answered, her eyes never straying far from the king. The world would wait as she made her move. “I’ve heard much about you,” she added, and a mischievous tone spread through her voice as she finished. “And you’re more handsome in person than report’s suggested.”

As she had predicted, the king didn’t know how to answer it, couldn’t react. It was not pure protocol, and his face twisted in something between amusement and embarrassment. Arthur moved his weight from foot to foot, swinging slightly.

“Erm…”

With a soft, obviously proper voice, she prompted him forward.

“Are we going to stay in this chill all day?”

He looked at her, quickly finding his footing, and held her fingers in his warm, calloused hand. 

“Forgive me,” Arthur added, and turned around, facing his people — once again a king, not a inexperience boy in front of a pretty girl. “Tomorrow there’ll be a great feast,” he announced, looking over from one party to another. “To welcome our worthy friends.”

There was a round of applause to these words, and Mithian let him know her approval in squeezing his hand with her fingers. He turned towards her with a smile — a real, pleased, calm grin — and she beamed at him as well, both completely in sync.

She had a job to do, and it was to win the heart of a king.

And, for that, she was perfect.

(Mithian would play the moment again and again in her mind — he  _had_  clapped too, hadn’t he? But the thing stretching is mouth was a grimace at best, and his eyes spoke of heartbreak. How could she not have known?)

 

* * *

 

 

Walking down the steps of the castle she had started to believe it was going to be her some was quite hard on Mithian. It was more than just her pride that had been hurt by King Arthur’s sudden refusal on marrying her.

They had liked each other, hadn’t they?

Still — it was not to be. She held herself together by sheer force of will as she came down the steps, knights and court gathered to see her sent back to her father like some unwanted gift.

She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her pain.

Mithian did not look at him as she passed him by, and he did not raise his head to face her, the coward. It made her clench her jaw harder.

“Princess,” the king’s voice was painfully soft behind her, and protocol dictated she couldn’t simply ignore. She tried to put her gloves back on, but rage made her hand tremble. “Forgive me.”

How dared he? The spun on her heels, looking at him defiantly.

“Time for words is over, sire,” she answered.

“I understand,” he answered, and he looked so contrite that Mithian had to look down to avoid asking him all the questions in her head. She would not let him affect her so. “And it is for this reason that I hereby offer you and your descendants all the disputed lands of Gedref.”

Mithian shook her head, confused. This made no sense. Arthur had managed to grow even more infuriatingly confusing than before, which was a feat in itself.

“You would give up your ancient claims?” she asked, because it made no sense. These lands had been disputed for years and years, King Uther and her father never seeing eye to eye on it. Now, it was suddenly all worthless?

Did he want to get rid of her as badly as all that?

What had she done wrong?

“I have no desire for war,” he answered, his voice rough. “Or to grieve you any more than I already have.”

Mithian wanted to punch his face, or spit in it, but she knew how much it meant to her people — and to his people, too — avoiding war. And if there was something she was sure she and Arthur agreed about was that the people came first, always, even when it broke their hearts, even when it meant stepping away.

“Such an offer cannot be — rushed into,” she warned him but the king did not care. He pulled a scroll from behind his back, clearly ready to push all of it on.

“I've had my scribes draw up an agreement. If you're happy with the terms, I'll sign forthwith.”

Mithian wanted to yell at him, to scratch his face until there was blood. She wanted to step on his face, and make him feel all the humiliation, all the pain, the heartbreak that he had put — was putting — her through. She knew she would have to agree, but she wanted nothing more than to refuse, to take her revenge, because she had done nothing,  _nothing_  to justify something like that.

Then her eyes slide upwards, to the people watching, to the face of the one person other than the king that might know  _why_  he’s doing this with her, and the answer is written in a face marked with comfort and pride. Mithian closes her eyes minutely, wanting to laugh and shriek at the absurd that is a single servant having so much power as to dictate policy, but there’s nothing left for her to do but to harden her voice.

“And if I refuse?”

“It's all I can offer,” Arthur replied, looking sad — whom for, she could not say. “I do so most humbly.”

For a moment, Mithian just watched him squirm — so reminiscent of their first meeting, and at the same time, so different — before she took the scroll in her hands. Arthur did not look like a man happy to get rid of a marriage, no, he looked like a man that was heartbroken as well, but — of course. It  _was_  quite obvious, come to think of it.

There’s loyalty, closeness and devotion — and she was a stranger. There was much she did not know, but her instinct knew that there was — there must be — someone else. It was the only possible explanation. And didn’t the gossip say that he and Elena hadn’t married out of some romantic notion?

“Tell me...who is it that trumps a princess?” she asked, point blank, hoping for honesty if nothing else.

“No one,” he answered, looking at her. “And everyone.”

Mithian snickered, the man was just ridiculous.

“What great family are they from?”

“None,” he answered, and it was as if time had stopped, her brain making all the connections at once. It all rushed back to her — the dark looks, the smirks, the hostility when talking to her — there must have been a  _reason_  for it, it wasn’t just that Merlin did not like her for no fault of her own —  _she_  was the problem, the intruder, the one coming between them. Because, really, had they even tried to hide? Even their bickering had felt… charged. The exchanged glances and licked lips, and no woman would ever be good enough for Arthur, no great princess and no simple peasant because, in the depths of his heart, there was already someone reigning over it, on the way their lives were twisted together like a vine. 

How could she not have seen it?

Once more, Mithian glanced at Merlin — he had a name,  _Merlin —_ and he was far, far more than a servant. He looked torn and pained, and he was not her rival, not her enemy. He was just a boy, deeply in love, being put aside for the needs of the kingdom and damn politics as if what he felt or wanted meant nothing.

And with that, Mithian could certainly empathise. 

“She’s the daughter of a blacksmith,” the king continued, and Mithian frowned. Then again, how openly could him declare he was in love with not only a  _peasant_ , but a  _man_?

“And for her you would risk your kingship? Your kingdom?”

Mithian could and understood how Merlin felt and why he acted as he did, it was Arthur’s actions that befuddled her. Could it be that he’d dare to choose love above duty? Had she misjudged him? Or worse — even worse — was such devotion, such love, such bond  _possible_ and forever unattainable to her?

“Without her, they're worth nothing to me.”

Arthur was earnest, and she found out she couldn’t face him. Mithian looked down, her temper gone in a rush of humbleness. What did she know of heartbreak — or love, for that matter — if she had never imagined something like this could exist? She did not dare to look at Merlin and see how he took it, but she hoped he was hearing all this and that it’d sooth her heart — make him sure that nothing, not even Camelot, could ever stand between them.

She did not think he knew it.

“I would give up my own kingdom to be so loved,” she confessed, before finally looking at the king for one last time. “Farewell, Arthur.”

“Farewell, princess,” he answered, and she threw him a smile — releasing the reel, letting him go, forever, hoping he would have the courage to stay where she gathered her courage to leave, again and again.

She felt his eyes — their eyes — on her back as she walked away, but she did not turn back. She didn’t have to.

Mithian had one job, it was to come home, to her people, bringing peace.

And for that, she was perfect.


End file.
